


The Missing Case

by juliaaaravenclaw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1960s, 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, America, Britain, Codes & Ciphers, Conspiracy Theories, Dallas - Freeform, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Kennedy Murder, London, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV John Watson, Shooting, Texas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliaaaravenclaw/pseuds/juliaaaravenclaw
Summary: Fanfiction based on BBC’s Sherlock (and elements of ACD Sherlock Holmes). Set in an alternate universe where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson travel to the USA to solve the murder of John F. Kennedy. If one was to place it in the BBC timeline, it would take place after series one but before series two (but in an alternate universe). An original story but inspired by Study In Scarlet/Pink, The Blind Banker and to some extent The Great Game. Note that this casefic is part of a fanfiction project at Malmö University, Sweden. Three authors have contributed to the text.





	

In the autumn of 1962 the streets of London were filled with young people, girls in short skirts and boys with long hair, listening to ear-numbing music. I tried to play a song to Sherlock by the famous band “The Beatles”, but he turned the music off as soon as I turned it on. Sherlock was not fond of the changes happening in London, but I was to some extent keen to the music and the short skirts. Despite the tensions escalating in the Cold War, London was calm and full of hope for the future.  
 Since the cases of A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker, there hadn’t been any interesting crimes for Sherlock to investigate in London. At most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent even a Scotland Yard official could see through it. Sherlock was as bored as ever, whereas I was slightly more preoccupied with my practice. Sherlock rarely left the apartment, since he was too annoyed with the mob of mod youngsters roaming the streets of West London.

I had bought a Television even though Sherlock did not agree on us buying it. In fact, he despised the device so much that he frowned every time he passed it, or when he heard me watching the news. I needed something to do while he was occupied with a few science projects.  
  One day I was watching the evening news as Sherlock was playing his violin by the window, trying to drown the sounds from the Television. The regular airing was interrupted by the horrible news that John. F. Kennedy, the President of America, had been shot. I suddenly felt that the political equilibrium risked being disrupted and tried to share my concerns with Sherlock.  
“Sherlock! Be quiet, please! I am trying to listen to the news! The American President has been shot! This is serious!”    
“So?” Sherlock answered with a shrug and kept playing. “It was probably some madman trying to cause chaos. Men die all the time.”  
It was impossible to get his attention.  
“But Presidents don’t die every day! Don’t you realise the severity of this?” I said, but he did not reply.  
  
However, the next day came with a turn of events. The news anchor declared that Lee Harvey Oswald, Kennedy’s alleged killer, had been shot Sherlock was in the kitchen performing yet another experiment when I updated him on the events of the second shooting. The noises from the kitchen suddenly stopped, and he stepped out into the living room.  
“What?” he asked with a frown.  
“Yes, someone shot Oswald. Apparently, it was someone called Jack Ruby, a nightclub owner. I did not think you’d bother,” I said to him.  
“Well, now I bother. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. Because obviously, Oswald was not the murderer,” he said as if it was the most blatant fact in the world.  
“We have to leave for America, Watson. Finally, we have an exciting case!” he exclaimed.  
“What do you mean ‘we have a case’?” I asked. “This is crazy, you cannot seriously mean that you want to go to America, Sherlock? They have already solved the case!”

“Well, usually America is not something that interests me, but there is something the police are missing. All policemen are imbeciles, even in America. Go to bed John, we are flying tomorrow.”

Then he rushed back into the kitchen, and the noises started again.  
 I sat in my armchair, unsure of what to do next. Of course, it was mad that Sherlock wanted to leave for America,   intending to solve one of the most significant cases in years . Evidently, he was largely unaware of the political situation in the Western world, as he was of worldly matters. He did not know, or care, that two Brits could not possibly be allowed to burst into the investigation. At the same time, I knew that Sherlock was not like most people, and that he was absolutely sure that we were going. The bad feeling in my gut made itself reminded, and I realised that I needed to take action, even if it meant agitating Sherlock.  
  
The clock on our wall had only just struck eleven in the evening as I heard a knock on our door, and Mycroft entered. Before even acknowledging me, Sherlock’s older brother called “Sherlock! Present yourself this instant!”

The two brothers’ relationship had been colder than The Cold War for decades, and I prepared for the clash bound to come.  
Sherlock entered the sitting room and glared at his brother. “Out with it, Mycroft. Are you spying on me for the government again? Or for Mother, perhaps?”  
“Oh, leave Mother out of this, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, evidently annoyed. “I am here because I have heard some very disturbing news about you wanting to interfere with the murder investigation of the American President.”  
 Sherlock turned to me, his eyes filled with anger, “Why would you go behind my back and tell Mycroft?! Hmm?” he snapped.  
 Mycroft snapped with equal anger back at his brother. “Watson has done nothing wrong. It is you who are acting like a deranged and severely narcissistic madman! For God’s sake, Sherlock, thinking you can just go to America and solve a murder only because you are bored! This is bigger than you and your ‘great mind’! You have no idea what lies behind this, brother dear.”  
 Sherlock stood with his arms crossed on his chest.  
“Like I said to John, the policemen in America are clearly as incompetent as the ones at Scotland Yard. Evidently, something needs to be done. I would be doing them a favour, _brother dear,”_ he declared confidently, but still with a sharp tone.  
“I warn you, Sherlock. This is not about you. I forbid you from going. You would be jeopardizing numerous plans we’ve made the last years,” Mycroft said with a stern voice.  
“I hate to tell you this Mycroft, but you cannot tell me what to do, nor can the British Government. Or well, since you _are_ the British Government, that is basically the same thing. Now, good evening, Mycroft,” said Sherlock with an air of resolution.  
  Mycroft raised an index finger and said, “I warn you Sherl- ”  
“ _Goodbye, Mycroft,_ ” Sherlock interrupted even louder. Mycroft lowered his hand, shook his head, picked up his walking stick and left. Sherlock snorted and muttered a long string of curses I didn’t hear completely, but I picked up something about ‘audacity’, ‘inferiority complex’ and ‘abuse of power’.  
  Sherlock turned to me, and I began thinking of excuses to defend my actions with, but the words that came out of his mouth were not what I expected.  
  “John, I suggest that you pack your suitcase and be ready by seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Don’t forget to pack your pistol. We are leaving for America. The game is afoot!” he said before turning his heel and heading towards his bedroom, from where I heard a sharp bang. I stood perplexed and looked at his door, before sighing and muttering to myself “Well, at least you have always wanted to see the States.”  
  
How Sherlock managed to get us seats on that airplane baffles me to this day. Before we arrived at the airport that morning of the 25th of November, he simply made a telephone call that lasted less than a minute. I hurried after him as he made his way to a gate. When we arrived, he whispered something in the ear of a stewardess who let us past the long line waiting to board the plane, despite angry protests from fellow passengers.  
  When finally seated in the aircraft, I asked him how on earth he managed to get us seats at Pan Am; he simply replied “I helped a pilot during the War. He owed me a favour.”

What kind of favour that would grant us two highly expensive seats at this luxurious airline I did not know.  
  The travel over the Atlantic Ocean was long and tiring, and my bad leg ached the whole time. Sherlock, however, seemed quite carefree.  
  Once in Dallas, I was astonished by the skyline, which was more magnificent than I had imagined. The city reminded me much of the area around Threadneedle Street back in London, with its many banks and businessmen with briefcases. In my newly bought guidebook, I read that Dallas is actually the third most important corporate city in America.

Sherlock quickly got hold of a cab driver who drove us to Hotel Indigo downtown. As we entered the lobby, I noticed how upscale the hotel appeared, put down my suitcase and said to Sherlock, “You cannot suggest that we are going to stay here?”

He turned around and looked confused.

“Can you afford this, Sherlock? I don’t want to spend my money on some whim!”, I hissed at him.  
  He smirked and reached for something in the inner pocket of his coat. I noticed that it was a checkbook.    
  “No,” he said with a sly smile. “But Mycroft can.”  
Sherlock then went to the reception, conversed with the man behind the desk for a minute, and returned with a key. The room was indeed luxurious and equipped with two large beds.  
  The next morning I woke up and found Sherlock sitting in the armchair by the window, looking out over Dallas.  
“Did you not sleep, Sherlock?” I asked him drowsily.  
“Of course not John. You know I never sleep when I am on a case,” he said, his eyes not moving an inch.  
“But the time difference? You must feel that,” I said as I stretched and sat up on the edge of my bed.  
He shrugged. “It does not matter where I am. Time is not important.”  
I shook my head. After little less than a year as Sherlock Holmes's companion, he still boggled my mind.  
  
Sherlock insisted on heading out to inspect the scene of the crime immediately that morning.  
 John F. Kennedy had been shot out in the open, during a car ride around Dallas and Dealey Plaza, trying to smooth over political frictions and gather support for the upcoming election.  
“But Sherlock, what do you expect to find here? The murder took place five days ago. Surely, no evidence can be left here now,” I said to him, as he observed the plaza with a frown of concentration between his eyes.  
“Well, as I have said, policemen are incompetent, even in America. Besides, I suspect someone is covering something up. Why would they else shoot that Oswald man? There must be more to this case,” he answered with certainty.  
 He then started walking around the plaza, observing and inspecting details too delicate for my untrained eyes. At some places, he used his magnifying glass to closer investigate a detail he found of importance.  
  Suddenly, Sherlock returned to me.

“John, we need to visit the police and see if we can get any clues from them. Not that I’m expecting them to give us any, but we’ll give it a try.”

We went to the police station. Just as Sherlock had expected, they were not very helpful.

Sherlock went to the reception, where a young, beautiful lady sat. Sherlock, of course, didn’t notice her beauty. He pulled out a leather wallet from his coat pocket and flipped it open to reveal a golden police badge.

“Chief Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. One of your officers has called me here for an expert testimony about a small detail in the Kennedy investigation. I was wondering if you would let me in so I can exchange a word with him?”

The young woman gave Sherlock a worried look but did in fact recall one of the officers talking in the lunchroom about a famous English detective. To my surprise, Sherlock passed by the reception desk without any further notion. I was left outside, but Sherlock returned after a few minutes. He was very irritated and muttered something I couldn’t comprehend.  
“What happened in there, Sherlock?” I asked him as he quickly left the lobby and walked outside.  
“I made it all the way into the very room where they had the investigation. I found files scattered all over the office, and the policemen didn’t even notice me the first few seconds. But then, a man came up to me and asked me who I was and what in God’s name I was doing in their investigation room. I explained that I am a consulting detective, and that it was obvious that they have missed crucial details in the investigation, and that I wanted to see the files from the case, to see what they’ve missed. The man, who apparently was the head officer from FBI sent to supervise the investigation, laughed straight in my face. He turned around, sat down in his chair and started reading a paper. Then, he asked me to leave.”  
“So you found no further clues, Sherlock?”

“Of course I got something, what do you think of me, dear fellow?”    
“Well, you never know.”    
“I overheard the detectives saying that they will go to something called ‘The Carousel’. Watson, would you be so kind as to interfere with some of these busy people in the streets to find out where ‘The Carousel’ is?” said Sherlock, already lost in his thoughts.

I asked the first person I saw, and she answered me in a very rude tone as if I disturbed her in a life-threatening situation,

“Oh, you mean Jack Ruby’s night-club? The Carousel’s ‘round the corner to the left.” My jaw dropped. Apparently, it was very famous in Dallas.

“This cannot be a coincidence,” I said to myself.

Sherlock was several feet ahead of me, and I had to run to stop and tell him the breaking news.       

 

Later that evening, as the nightclub had just opened its doors, we returned. The exterior looked like a storefront, but with big neon signs saying “Girls” and “Burlesque”. Sherlock headed directly for the bar trying to get in contact with one of the waitresses. He started to chat with one of them and seemed to ignore the fact that she wore nothing but pants and a brassiere covered with tassels.

“Well, Mister, Jack was a good boss, it’s too bad he’s behind bars now. He loves us and treated us well. He has a temper, but he never hurt nobody here. He loved the President and the USA, that’s really all there is to it,” the waitress answered, single-handedly balancing a tray of glasses of  whiskey.

“I’m proud that he shot that traitor, he deserved it.”

Then she went back to her work.

Sherlock spoke to more waitresses, all conveying similar views as the first one. Then he hurried to the far end of the bar, and there, in a corner booth, sat a group of men in the midst of celebrating something.

“Nice to meet you again, hotshot!” one of them smirked.

“You solved the case yet? Oh, wait. It’s already solved!” They all laughed in a mocking manner.

“This is the guy that came into the station earlier!” Apparently, this drunken crowd was the policemen that Sherlock had encountered earlier that day.

“The case has not been solved, you bunglers!” Sherlock muttered.

“Well, we caught the killer, he was shot.”

“It was not the killer that you caught.”

“Oh really? Well, tell me what you know that I don’t. We have all the evidence. We found Oswald with a gun, and we found three casings near the crime scene from the same gun. There were three shots in the incident, two hit Kennedy and one Governor Connally. Case closed, Mister Detective. Go back to your petty crimes in London.” The crowd of men smirked.

“Now get outta here, we’re trying to celebrate! Honey, bring us another round!” the man said as he waved a wad of dollar notes in his hand to the waitress closest to him.

After this incident, Sherlock walked with firm steps towards the door and I followed him not knowing what else to do.

“Where are we going?” I asked, catching my breath.

“To the hotel. This was a false lead, Watson.”

“What do you mean?”

“Evidently, Jack Ruby has nothing to do with it.”

“I hate to repeat myself, but what do you mean?”

“Jack Ruby was merely a fool with a pistol. He was not covering anything up, which was my original suspicion.”

I decided not to ask any more questions. Sherlock’s mind was elsewhere, and at that point, it is usually best to keep quiet and let his mind work.  
  
After the events in the club, I felt pessimistic about the case.

“Since this thing with Jack Ruby is solved, why don’t we just return to London? I cannot see how we can do anything more.”  
“But there must be. This is not right. It is not this simple. There is something in the shadows.”  
“Suppose there is something more, Sherlock. How will we ever find out what it is? We know no one here, Lestrade cannot help us and neither can Mycroft”.  
“We are not leaving, John,” he said and closed his eyes, and I knew that he had retreated into his mind palace.  
“Well, fine. Sit here and think. I’m going to bed,” I said annoyed but got no reaction.    
  
I left Sherlock to his thoughts, stayed out the entire next day and returned that evening. The darkness falls quickly in the American South. To my surprise, Sherlock was not there when I opened the door to our room. His coat was gone, but his suitcase still stood unopened at the foot of the other bed. He could not be far away.

 

After an hour or so, I heard the key in the door and Sherlock entered and went straight to the armchair. I rose and looked at him.  
“Well?” I asked impatiently.  
“‘Well’ what?”  
“Well, where have you been all day?”  
“Oh, that. I met with the First Lady. Or perhaps she is the former First Lady now,” he said thoughtfully, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  
“You did what?” I asked, stunned.  
“Did you not hear? I met with Jackie Kennedy, the wife of the murdered President. She sought me out, and I went to meet her,” he replied patiently.  
“My hearing is fine, thank you, but I simply find it baffling that you would meet the First Lady, and that she would seek you out!”  
“Oh calm down, John. I know that you fancy her, and I actually mentioned how I was here with my dear friend and _single_ colleague, although she seemed offended, don’t know why. You are single now, aren’t you? I sometimes lose track of your ladies. In any case, she wanted to confide some details of the case to me”.  
I felt an annoying blush in my cheeks, but ignored the comment concerning my love life.  
“But, what details? Surely the police must have her testimony?”  
“Obviously. That, however, does not mean that they believe her. After all, she is a woman, hysterical at this point because of the loss of her husband.  
“But how did she hear of you? Not to diminish your efforts, Sherlock, but you are not as known here as you are in London.”  
“I am aware of that, but there is a simple explanation. She overheard one of the officers mentioning me when she went down to the station to file a complaint. She wanted to speak with the FBI inspector that has been sent here because she felt the regular officers hadn’t taken her testimony seriously. Then, she instructed her guard to call the hotels downtown and ask for a Mr. Holmes until success was reached. I’ll have to admit that even I was confused to start with, but quickly gathered myself and went to meet her at her hotel,” he explained excitedly.  
“And what did you find out?” I asked, very curious of this unexpected turn of events.  
“She told me that on the day that her husband was shot, she heard the three shots, as others have confirmed. However, she also heard a fourth shot. And this is important because the police have disregarded this statement with the explanation that it was a car that backfired. But as I pressed her, she claimed that she was absolutely sure that it was a fourth shot that she heard. As you know, when exposed to shock or a sudden event, time appears to be passing by slower, hmm?”  
“Yes, that is true,” I nodded, slightly annoyed. “Go on.”  
“Yes, and because of that, Jackie swears that she did not only hear this fourth shot but also saw how her husband’s body jerked at the sound, and in a different direction. Thus, she is convinced that there was more than one shooter at the Plaza that day.”  
“Hmm.”

He stood up and started pacing the room excitedly, smiling and chuckling.  
“Do you know what this means, Watson?”  
“Probably, but I will let you speak your mind since I am often mistaken.”  
“It means that Oswald was ultimately insignificant. And we already knew that Jack Ruby was a nobody. So it means that someone probably set Oswald up so that the real shooter could get away without a trace. Which also means that some officials are in on it, since they were so eager to solve the case. Oh, these people think they are so clever!”  
“I guess Mycroft was right then, about this being bigger than we knew.”  
“Hm, yes. I also went back to the Plaza today. Jackie’s testimony matches with the triangular shape of the Plaza. That is why I came back to find you now, Watson. I need you to come with me. I need the expertise of a veteran.”  
  
Sherlock led me not to the center of the Plaza but headed towards a grassy knoll, which was situated on the other side of Elm Street.  
“Now John, from exactly where we are standing now, could you manage to shoot the President’s head, in a moving vehicle, in only one try?” he asked me.  
“You do know that I did not serve as a sniper, but as a field doctor?” I replied annoyed, and started to suspect that he did not really need my help but only wanted to display his findings.  
“So you would not have been able to do it?” he pressed.  
“I wouldn’t have, no. From this distance, in a moving vehicle, a regular marine wouldn’t have made it in one try. But an experienced marksman would have a chance.”  
“Just as I suspected,” he said with a hint of a smile. “I know where we need to go.”

We shuffled off.  
“Are we going back to The Carousel?” I asked him.  
He looked confused. “Why, yes. How did you know?”  
“I reckoned you wanted to speak with the veteran we saw sitting there the last time.”  
He still looked confused.  
“Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock”, I said, annoyed. “I spent years at the front. I can spot a veteran in one glance. I am not completely useless, you know.”

 

That night we returned once more to “The Carousel”. We entered the velvet covered room and Sherlock headed straight for one of the Blackjack tables, and this one was particularly sticky from many spilled drinks over the years.  
 We both sat down next to a middle-aged man and started to play cards. I had never played Blackjack and tried to pick up the rules by observing the others. I wished for Sherlock to show me how to do it, but he was preoccupied with his own game. At last, he whispered to me,

“It’s the same as twenty-one.”

I felt oblivious for not noticing this since I had played many rounds of cards during my time in the war. From that moment on, my performance in the game improved slightly, but as in the war, I did not have a lot of luck. While I was trying not to lose all of my pension, I did my best to eavesdrop on what Sherlock and the middle-aged man were saying. There were a lot of noise from the speakers, and both the middle-aged man and Sherlock spoke in low volume.

“Who are you, and what do you want from me?” The man said.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes; I am a consulting detective, and I suppose I am the only one in the world. Your name is Frank Thompson. You are a military man who served as a sniper in the Korean war. When you returned, your wife had left you for a richer man, and your pension is not much to speak of. You have a pending heart-disease. Not treatable, but not terminal either. Even though you are not old, you feel like your youth has been lost. You’re not the vital man you once were, and therefore you like to spend your time here, in this very stool, playing Blackjack. You miss the risk-taking and the action from the war. It is all you have ever been good at. And oh, you have children who soon want to go to college, which you cannot afford. Did I leave something out?”

The man looked stunned, as most people do when Sherlock uses his deduction skills. Even if I have spent last year living with this man, I still get so impressed; I still cannot understand how his mind works.

“Well, all except one thing. My wife didn’t leave me for another man, but for a woman.”  
“A woman, that possibility didn’t cross my mind. There is always something,” Sherlock frustratedly exclaimed.

“Have you been spying on me? Who sent you?” the man hissed to Sherlock.

“No one sent me. I went to America by choice, with my associate Dr. Watson here, because I want to solve a case.”

“How did you find me?” the man asked, still in a hushed tone.

“Well, I was here last night and noticed you. It was obvious to me that you were a military man, and that your profession in the war was as a sniper. And it just so happens we are looking for a sniper for the case we are working on.”

“How the hell did you know I was a sniper? And what war I fought in? And that my wife left me? And the kids?”

Sherlock sighed. These situations were bittersweet to Sherlock; he disliked explaining to us clueless how he came to these conclusions, but nevertheless he loved being superior to others.

“It is easier to know it than to explain why I know it. Well, firstly, your posture at the Blackjack table. You sit as if you have a pistol in your hand. It seems like you have done it for so long your body knows no other way to sit. About which war you were in, you are too young to be in the Second World War and Korea was the most recent war America was in, and clearly, you’re not in Vietnam. Also, no man who has a wife sits at a bar in the middle of the day playing blackjack. About your children, I saw you pick up your wallet to pay, in the wallet was black and white images of children, presumably yours. The pictures were taken back when all pictures were black and white. Also from the way they were dressed it seems that it would be around early 40’s. From that the math is easy, they are probably around the age when one wants to go to college. I deducted your disease from the prescription bottle containing pills in your inner pocket. The fact that you do not have any money is obvious from the way you dress.” Sherlock gestured at the man’s jacket, hinting it was very worn out. “From your wallet, I also found out your name. Well, enough about that. Now onto what really brought us here. I have reason to believe you were the man who shot John F. Kennedy.”

“Sorry Mister, but the man that killed John F. Kennedy has already been caught and shot. Oswald was also in the army and a trained gunman,” said Mr. Thompson, constantly looking around the room as if he was looking for someone in particular.

“About that, from my investigations, Oswald was not a good enough sniper to carry out the deadly shot. There was Oswald, and there was another shooter who fired the deadly bullet in the back of Kennedy’s head. In one try at that, very impressive, might I add.”

“I ain’t the only sniper in this town. Also, if I’m such a loser, sitting here playing my cards, why would I wanna shoot the president?” he said in a gloomy voice.

“Not you per se, I believe. I think you were offered a large sum of money for the deed. Most of which you have already made sure your family has received to pay for your children’s college fees. Finally, you could be a little bit more than a ‘loser’ to your children. You couldn’t care less about your own life, you put that on the line for them, very noble of you.”

“If we say that some of this is true, who told me to do it?”

“That is the only part I have not yet figured out. You tell me,” said Sherlock.

“I’ll tell you. Just let me use the toilet, all that whiskey goes right through you, you know.”

Mr. Thompson rose and appeared to be heading towards the restroom, but as soon as he came close to the door I saw him sneak out of the night club.

“Sherlock! He left!” I called out.

I jumped out of my seat and ran after Mr. Thompson.

 

I got out of the night-club and saw the lights of a taxi further down the street. A man, that in the dim streetlights appeared to be Thompson, ran towards the vehicle. I ran after him as quickly as I could, but I was still quite far behind him. Before I had the chance to reach for my pistol, Thompson turned around and fired a shot towards me. The bullet, which in my trained eye was not aimed to be fatal, barely touched my left calf. I should have foreseen the fact that he had a pistol on him and had mine ready, I thought to myself. Still, it did not change the fact that he was an excellent sniper and I was merely an army doctor. He was not trying to kill me, but to warn me. After the shot, he got in the to the cab which swiftly vanished behind a street corner. I heard a familiar voice from behind me. Sherlock had caught up with me.

“You are not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt?”

It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. For the one and only time, I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.

“It’s nothing. It’s a mere scratch. But more importantly, now we have definitely found our assassin. We should follow him! Did you catch the number on the license plate?”

“I’m pleased to hear that you are not hurt, but from now on we need to pay more attention. Indeed Mr Thompson was the shooter, but he is irrelevant. Let’s just go back to our hotel”.

  
Up in our hotel room, Sherlock suddenly took something out of his pocket. He showed me a napkin which he apparently had received earlier the same night from Mr. Thompson. On the napkin, something was written in an untidy handwriting, as if someone had been in a hurry. It said _WSJ 20_. Usually, Sherlock loved these kinds of riddles. But this time, I detected a shred of anguish in his features. For the first time, in a long time, we were equally clueless. Sherlock looked at me and hoped that I had something smart to say. After a while, he looked discouraged.

“Go to sleep, John,” he finally said. “We’ll have to continue tomorrow. And hopefully, we’ll make something out of this message.”

 I slept badly that night. It worried me to my bones that Sherlock had felt the same way as myself. Might it be, he had started to doubt our journey to America and had recalled Mycroft’s words when he warned us about going to America. I prayed that the next day would bring us closer to solving the case.

 

The next morning, I was woken up by the sound of a crash. Sherlock had dropped a glass of water on the floor.  
“Sorry, Watson. Not my intention to wake you up. Although, you slept more than enough by now”.

In contrary to myself, it looked as if Sherlock had been awake all night. His hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and his eyes were bloodshot. On the desk, the napkin laid.

“Which is it today,” I asked, “morphine or cocaine?” He raised his eyes languidly.

“It is cocaine,” he said, “a seven-percent solution. Would you like to try it?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

I rolled my eyes. To this day, I’m not sure if Sherlock was ironic or not.  
 I had to tell Sherlock to dress appropriately since he did not care about his appearance in the middle of a case. We went down to the lobby to eat the same breakfast as the day before. The lobby was full of people, and I noticed what looked like a typical American businessman sitting in the lobby. Apparently, I was not the only one spotting the man. All of a sudden, Sherlock went with resolute steps towards the man sitting in the armchair. It appeared as if Sherlock was about to assault the poor man when he suddenly snatched the newspaper out of his hands.  
“What the blazes are you doing, Sherlock!?” I exclaimed. Sherlock held the magazine in his hands and cried,

“Of course! It is so obvious!” In a fast pace, he ran back up to the hotel room, and I had no other choice than to follow him after having apologized to the man in the armchair.  
“Oh Watson, it has been right in front of our eyes all this time! How could I be so oblivious?”  
“What, Sherlock? What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “I’m still in the dark!”  
 Sherlock took the newspaper and held it in front of me. It was the Wall Street Journal.

“Do I have to make the connection for you, Watson? You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.” Sherlock took the napkin, which still laid on the desk. He held it up, alongside the paper.

“Do you see it now?” Sherlock asked.

I did, but I didn’t understand what that would tell me.

“It is the newspaper, which I assume the acronym WSJ refers to” I explained to Sherlock.

“Yes, excellent!”

Sherlock sat down by the window. He opened the paper and landed on page 20. I went to see what Sherlock was looking at.

“It is an advertisement for a strip club Sherlock. They don’t seem very rare in this country.”  
“True, but look at the name and the number- doesn't that remind you of something?” I looked at the name and the phone number: _Rosa Pearl,_ _+2215- 1722- 75201_ .  
”Could it be one of the strippers from Jack’s nightclub?” I asked Sherlock.

“No, no, that would be too easy. Give me a moment. I know I can figure it out, it is somewhere in my mind. I know I’ve seen this before.”

 I just sat there, beside him, being useless, while he pondered. I tried my best to appear as if I thought as hard as Sherlock, but it was a waste. Both of us knew that I wasn’t the one figuring this clue out. Abruptly, Sherlock exclaimed, “Where is the guidebook? I need a map.”

All of a sudden he looked much more harmonious than before. I think he even smiled, although awkwardly, as he does when he gets excited. I started searching my pockets for the map while Sherlock was impatient and pushed me aside to keep on looking himself.

“Aha, here we have it,” he said.

He walked back to the window and placed the map on the floor.

“Rosa Pearl, +2215- 1722- 75201. Rosa Pearl, +2215- 1722- 75201,” he exclaimed over and over again.

Sherlock followed the streets on the map up and down with his finger. “Watson, how many figures do Americans use when they phone one another?”

“Hm. I think ten, how so?”

He said nothing in response.

Suddenly, Sherlock took the map, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.  
“John, get dressed. We need to leave,” Sherlock ordered. Even though I was very much provoked by his obnoxious behaviour, I was also very much excited. Instantly, we left for the streets.

“Where are we going, Sherlock?”

“We are going to where they want us to go.”

I was still baffled, and Sherlock could tell from my expression. He explained,

“The advertisement was a not a regular advertisement, as you may have understood. When I finally realised the importance of the paper, and that Mr. Thompson received orders from the advertisement on page 20, I also understood that this morning's edition would enclose another message. The note he had left me told the name of the magazine, and also which page. I recognized Rosa Pearl from somewhere. And when you said that domestic phone numbers only contain ten digits, I knew it had to be an address since it contained too many figures to be used as a phone number locally. As you know Watson, I have a memory for street names. With the map in my hands, it was not hard to figure out where they wanted us to go. Rosa stands for Rosa Avenue, and Pearl for North Pearl. I could confirm that easily since the ‘phone number’ was two dialling codes. 2215 Rosa Avenue and 1722 North Pearl, which are both located in the same area code, 75201.”

“Wait a minute, where _they_ wanted us to go? Who are they?” I asked. Sherlock stopped abruptly, turned on his heel and walked towards a high building across the street. The building was a skyscraper richer and more striking than any of the buildings back in London. It stood in great contrast to the historical buildings we were used to.  
“Both you and I will soon know who they are,” Sherlock said and entered the building.     

 

The lobby was as astonishing as its exterior. The floors were made of marble, and the couches were covered in black leather. I looked around the room and noticed several pieces of modern art, some of them abstract and with geometrical shapes. One of the paintings was particularly difficult to look at since its optical illusion made me dizzy. I did not like it one bit. I managed to jerk out of the trance caused by the motif, and whispered out of the corner of my mouth to Sherlock, as he just stood there, like a statue himself, “What’s the plan, Sherlock?”  
“Waiting. Someone will eventually appear. They know we are here” he said cautiously. Knowing Sherlock, I accepted his answer and tried to avoid looking at the dizzying paintings. I had noticed that we were alone, not even a bellboy or a person behind the desk. Suddenly, the elevator doors opened without a distinguishable sound.  
From the elevator a woman stepped out, even more stunning than the First Lady herself, with high and prominent cheekbones and stunningly blue eyes. Her hair was dark and arranged in an intricate manner on the top of her head, and an air of composure surrounded her. Her dress was red, form-fitted and accentuated her figure. She wore high, red heels which looked razor sharp. Even her lips were scarlet.  

“Follow me, gentlemen,” the lady said, and gestured to us to step into the elevator. We obliged and it began its journey upwards instantly.  
 We remained silent while the elevator went higher and higher; the journey seemed never-ending, partly because there were countless floors and partly because of the deafening silence. We arrived at last to the top floor, the 30th storey.  
 Sherlock was calm as usual, while I was feeling quite concerned. The lady led us to a room with walls entirely made of glass, and the skyline was visible even from the corridor. Through the glass, I could see a long oval table made of polished mahogany, completely bare except for a tray with glasses and a pitcher of water. Four men were sitting around the table. They wore expensive black suits, shiny shoes and silk ties. Their attire matched the swivel chairs they were sitting in and were clad in black leather just like the furniture in the lobby. The suits they wore were probably more expensive than our flat back in London.  
  The lady opened the glass doors and gestured for us to sit at the other side from the four men. We sat down in the wide, comfortable and stylish chairs. The woman, which I now assumed was a secretary to one of the men, started to walk across the room. Finally, on the opposite of the room, she sat down at the far end of the table in the midst of the four men. I realised that I had made the wrong assumption.  
In one corner, a man appeared from what seemed to be the shadows. He was also fully dressed in black but more leisurely clothed. He didn’t appear to belong to the company around the oval table. All of a sudden, I realised where I had seen him before. In a quiet voice, I told Sherlock, “The man you snatched the newspaper from is standing in the corner. What is he doing here?” Sherlock was about to open his mouth and say something, but he was interrupted by the lady in red.

“Welcome, gentlemen. Let’s get started with today’s agenda.”

The four men around her nodded.

She picked up a pack of Lucky Strikes and offered each of us a cigarette. I declined, while Sherlock accepted the offer, borrowed her steel lighter and inhaled. The rest of the company also lit their cigarettes, and the air instantly filled with smoke.  
 The lady continued, with a cigarette resting delicately between her lips,

“The first thing on our agenda today is ‘Kill Sherlock’, but unfortunately we’ll have to scratch that now. Apparently, someone doesn’t want to see you dead just yet.” She inhaled, and then gracefully blew smoke upwards.

“However, according to our associate, your little companion here is not as important as you, so I suggest that you don’t do anything stupid or things will get ugly.”

I flinched as she uttered the words, but remained calm. After all this time I trusted Sherlock, but I was still on edge. I laid my hand discretely on my pistol to not raise any attention.  
  “I don’t ever do anything stupid. And I believe that you have already tried to kill Watson, but failed,” Sherlock replied calmly, also blowing smoke. “Who are you?”

“Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you who we are and you tell us what you know,” the lady said, leaning back in her chair, cigarette between her fingers.

“I accept. Again, who are you?” Sherlock pressed.  
“My name is Irene Adler, I’m one of the most powerful women you have and will ever meet. Beside me sit the most powerful men in this country. That’s all you need to know right now. What can you tell us about John. F. Kennedy’s murder?”  
I glanced at Sherlock and he didn’t appear distressed.

“Oswald was not the one who fired the fatal bullet at President Kennedy. I met with the First Lady, and she told me that there had been four shots, and not three as the police investigation suggested. At the crime scene, there was only one spot where a shooter could have stood without being discovered, and still being able to kill the President in one try. Oswald was just a decoy. Not a very good shooter, obviously. He was set out to do the task, but the people who hired him knew he would fail miserably. However, he would take the fall for the crime. Considering the fact that Mr. Thompson escaped, shortly after speaking with me, I now know that you paid him to do it. Then you gave him orders to eliminate those who might suspect something in order to cover your tracks. However, a marksman worthy enough to be hired to assassinate the president would not miss a shot at that short of a distance, implying he didn’t want to kill Watson, so you might have misjudged his character. You thought he wouldn’t expose your plans, you trusted him,” Sherlock confidently explained, barely stopping to breathe.  
The lady smiled.

“You’re smart. I like it. However, these are only words. You have nothing besides that.”  
 Now it was Sherlock’s turn to smile, and he chuckled as he reached for something in his pocket.

“Wrong. It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important,” Sherlock said as he displayed a bullet casing. Even I, who didn’t always have an eye for small details, noticed how Irene’s expression went tense, her pupils narrowed and jaw clenched. I was surprised by this unfolding event. Sherlock must have found the casing when we were at the grassy knoll without me noticing.    

“What has that got to do with anything?” The lady said, obviously concerned.

“You know what this is. If I were to examine the bullet found in Kennedy’s neck, it would be from the same rifle as this casing. And it would not match Oswald’s because he did not have the ability to control that kind of weapon. Obviously, power does not equal cleverness, Miss Adler. You assumed that Mr. Thompson would cover his tracks. Perhaps he even lied to you about doing so, desperate to receive his payment.”  
“Good job, Sherlock. You’ve certainly done your research, and it has been fun watching you solve it. Too bad no one’s gonna believe you, Mr. Holmes. It doesn’t have to be for nothing though. You could come and work for us, and solve bigger mysteries than you have ever imagined. Or perhaps not, because we have someone bigger and better than you. This person has insisted on being part of this operation to keep an eye on you, play with you and have you as a puppet, although that is not the usual routine,” Irene said, clearly content.

“One thing is missing in your theory though: why would we want to kill our president?” She added in an honeyed voice.

“For you all to continue to benefit from the Vietnam war. I have deduced that you are all businessmen from influential sectors in this country, even you, Miss Adler. The First Lady told me that Kennedy had thoughts about trying to end the war and that people, unknown to her, tried to bribe him to leave Vietnam. Of course, your first choice was not to assassinate him. You did try other things, but he was far too pacifist for your taste, and you feared that he would steer America towards a path that would be less beneficial to your interests. Although you had to wait for the perfect opportunity, him being in the open here in Dallas, which is one of your most important corporate centers in this country. Additionally, the political tensions contributed to your plans. But of course, the four of you and all the people above you have the funding just to sit back and wait for your orders to be carried out by laymen. When the assassination was completed you had to make sure that the police found a killer fast, so you sent one of your men to supervise and steer the investigation away from you. Also, you use the advertisements in the Wall Street Journal as a code to communicate while working in the shadows. I have not deduced your exact names or professions, but I know that you meet to interfere in political affairs, to secure your interests. Americans are proud to talk about their precious democracy, but little do they know that you govern this country from the shadows, just to avoid the public eye. From what I have learned in this country, it is accepted to protect corporations and not pry. Here you are gods, you are royal. You can do what you want. No one will suspect anything.”

“You flatter me, Mister Holmes,” she chuckled. “I am also impressed by your deduction skills. You’re even better than I’ve been told. But, oh, no one told me how handsome you are. I would cut myself slapping those cheekbones,” said Miss Adler sultrily.

“Well, it seems as we don’t have much more to discuss. This has been fun, but now it is time for you and your pet to return to your homeland. You have nothing further to do here, and if you _ever_ try to act on this, you know what will happen. Nothing. No one will believe you. I’ve made a call and made sure that you will travel home as soon as you step out of this building. May we meet again.”  
“Likewise,” Sherlock muttered.

 

Sherlock rose and I followed, perplexed. We left the room in a hurry. In the elevator, I tried to convince Sherlock that we would go to the police with the casing from the bullet and that it was the only right thing to do. But my attempts were futile; it was like talking to a wall. It made me furious, and I had serious thoughts about punching him. At last, he turned to me and said,

“You heard Miss Adler. Nothing can be done. The President will remain dead, whatever we do. We solved the case. From now on, we cannot take any further actions. This is not our place, Watson.”   

 

As we stepped out on the street, we encountered a familiar face; Mycroft and his men was waiting by a car. Sherlock looked very annoyed.

“What did I tell you, brother dear?”

Sherlock said nothing in return, but I could tell from his walk that he was agitated. Yet, he followed Mycroft to the car.

“But our bags? We have to go to our hotel and fetch them!” I shouted after them.

“Already taken care of, Doctor,” answered one of Mycroft’s men.  
  In the car heading for the airport, I caught a last glance of Dallas, and I reflected upon the great differences between Dallas and London, our home. In spite of our lack of success, I was still glad to have experienced Dallas. Albeit I missed London terribly, despite the filthy streets and our inadequate accommodation at Baker Street.

  
It was relieving to be back on English soil after the long flight over the Atlantic ocean. However, I noticed that something was on Sherlock’s mind, something that bothered him greatly. When I asked him about the matter, he answered me that there was something that he had missed; a key detail that would make all the difference.  
 Despite the fog, the London air seemed lighter than ever before, and I longed for my bed. We were almost on Baker Street 221B when we heard a sound from a phone booth.  
“Sherlock, the phone is ringing”, I said, perplexed. I had never experienced it ringing from a public phone before, and  I hadn’t even considered the possibility. Sherlock quickly stepped into the phone booth, as if he had been expecting a call, and picked up the phone. I waited outside, trying to eavesdrop on Sherlock’s end of the conversation. Suddenly, he hung up, looking determined with a frown between his eyes.  
“Who was that?”  
“He asked me if I had enjoyed the game,” he answered with a knowing smile. “That should be sufficient for you.”


End file.
